Tender
by GreenyLove
Summary: She was a drifter: vain and unfocused. She despised that old farm. He was depressed: lonely and aggressive. Life was about his farm. Their paths crossed, to an end, or something less confirmed. Marlin/Female OC.


Hello. 3 So this is the first fanfic I've been drive to write in a long time. I won't say much, go to my profile for more about this story and what I'm planning for it (and more about myself, as I realize I am new to this particular section). Thanks for checking it out!

**Warning:** rated M for suggestive content, use of alchohol and drugs, swearing, and (later) some graphic scenes.

I won't be repeating that warning, so please refer back here! I will, however, remind ya'll that...

_I do not own Harvest Moon: Another Wonderful Life. I do own Millaray Lauder and her family._

Enjoy!

* * *

The first question I asked myself when I stumbled into the kitchen that bright weekend morning was: _Why the hell is my sister in my kitchen?_

Pedery Lauder is thirty, six years older then me. And, though she had been living in this house until six months ago when her brand new husband finished renovating their brand new house in Golden Grade, the newest development in Harvest City, no longer appeared in my kitchen unless forced. Nor was it reassuring to know that after three different locksmiths, the back door still refused to function properly. My media-influenced mind expected rapists, burglars, even a drunken strangers, but not Pedery Lauder. She should be in Lamaze classes, or yapping with her knitting circle about what color to use on the baby's crib lining. I didn't fit into her magazine life where pillows matched and everyone Became Successful, Raised A Functional Family and Had Spectacular Sex...with their _husbands_.

No. My sister could not be in my kitchen.

My blank expression seemed to be worrying her; she pinched her lips together, running a fingernail along the rim of her - no, my coffee cup. Her short white-blonde hair was clipped back; the barrettes matched her maternity shirt. She sat there, completely out of place, glancing at my stacks of unpaid bills, the sink full of dishes, the fern wilting on the countertop. I'm not sure the pile of dirty towels in the corner escaped her notice, nor did the puddle of nail polish drying on the corner of the table.

I stood there for five minutes, waiting for her to disappear, before I finally cleared my throat at asked, "What are you doing here?"

She ceased her inspection and shifted in her chair, decidedly ignoring my question. "Good morning, Millaray. I made coffee; it's in the pot if you'd like some." She spoke cautiously, her smile tight across her face, eyeing me and my questionable state of dress. I didn't flinch. Not my fault I dislike sleeping with pants on.

I blinked, itching my nose, my eyes narrowing. "You opened the curtains." It wasn't an observation as much as a criticism. 'Sunlight' and 'half-awake' do not pair attractively. Neither do 'half-awake' and 'half-naked', for that matter.

It didn't faze Pedery. She gestured to the chair across from her. "Take a seat, sis. There's something we need to talk about." She was using her high school guidance counselor voice, settling herself like a business woman, armed with intellect, statistics and common sense.

The window exposing my sorry kitchen to the rest of the neighborhood was a more pressing problem. I didn't look at her as I padded over, pulling the curtains shut. I could feel her staring at my back, as I overlapped the fabric, in case it got the idea that opening was acceptable. She was quiet, almost grim. It wasn't until I'd gotten to the adjoined laundry room, digging for pants, when her silence became unnerving. Pedery was a chatter. Nothing made her happier than talking about her life, her feelings, kitchenware, television soaps, you name it.

"What do we need to talk about?" I asked, balancing against the dryer as I slipped into something. This odd state of not-talking, when coupled with her unexplained presence, made my mouth dry. _I swear, if she says one thing about motivational counseling or faith camps, I will launch something sharp into her f-!_

Pedery inhaled deeply; the words of her exhale as unexpected as a terrorist bomb.

"It's about dad."

I slowly straightened, adjusting the elastic across my hips. Did I hear her right? My ears began to buzz. The only noise in the room was the rhythmic ticking of the clock. I reached out, bracing against the wall; an unwanted constriction in my chest. Dad. My god.

"What about dad?" My voice was harsher. I did nothing to control it, frowning at her. Pedery took more deep breathes, exhaling through her mouth, eyes closes, meditating. I scratched my nose again, the itch spreading down into my legs, like an urge to run far away.

She finally opened her eyes, steady and blue, ready to explain. "Will you please sit down? This is important." Her brows knotted, scrutinizing me once more. "Are those men's boxers?"

What kind of question was that? "Yeah?" I responded in disbelief, raising my eyebrows in response, raking fingers through my bedhead. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Is there a man living here?" She was Pedery the archeologist now, gripping tighter to the coffee cup, digging for another flaw, another sore. "Are you seeing someone?"

I stomped over, rubbing the bags beneath my eyes. The chair screeched across the floor as I jerked it out, thudding down and crashing my elbows against the table, marred with dried paint from my artistic phase. "Pedery, it's early. I do not have a man in my bedroom; I am not involved with anyone. I like boxers. Would you try to control that instinct you have that makes you rip at every facet of my life and _get to the point_."

That hurt her; I could tell by the way her expression pinched, chin crinkling. She held it together, and continued. "I got a call from Uncle Takakura yesterday."

My thought train derailed again. I could feel the dumbfoundedness showing on my face. "Who?"

"Uncle Takakura!" she snapped, growing cross with my comparably terrible memory. "From the Valley."

The Valley. I shuddered. The room seemed colder. Somewhere in the background I heard the cat scratching the door, but I couldn't move to let her in. _The Valley!_

Pedery had paused for a few seconds, watching me. She was blinking rapidly, rubbing her finger across her bottom lip. I could hear the thump of her heel against linoleum, a nervous habit. "Like I said, he called me yesterday, from...you know...God, it was such a surprise. I mean, we haven't heard from anyone over there since...well, since the..." She took a lot of pauses, trying to weave around certain, painful words. Words I filled in; like _farm_ and _divorce_. "He wanted to talk to me, to tell me some new about our father."

I gnashed me teeth, deadpan as I stared at her, as though I didn't know what she was talking about. Therapists with PhDs in Psychology couldn't make me acknowledge these things.

"What I'm trying to say is, something happened to dad." She looked resigned, elbow on the table, resting her forehead on her knuckles. Something big was waiting, trapped behind those Pink No. 10 lips. I began to think it was a terrorist bomb, _tick tick ticking_.

"He's dead, Millaray. He died on Thursday." And the bomb detonated.

I gaped at her, stunned beyond words. All I could think was that I had no idea how to respond. Dad was dead...what was that supposed to _mean_ to me? Jack Lauder was a country boy. He was born and raised in the country. Everyone loved him; like you love that handsome farm hand who fixes your roof, but he was _dead_. It wasn't like that in my shut-away memories, where the only thing I could clearly recall was his smell (a mix of hay, smoke, and stale wine)-- then again, I had not seen, spoken too, or even thought about my father since I was six years old. Twenty years could detach a person.

So why does my chest feel so...?

"How'd he die?" My voice sounded strange to my ear. Pedery was crying openly, dabbing her tears away with the hem of her shirt sleeve.

"It was...it was his drinking." The thought seemed to make her cry harder. My face felt numb. "Uncle Takakura...he found him-!"

I cut in; I knew without words how he had been found. This part, the part where we peeked cautiously out of our bedroom, scared thinking he was still awake, to find him the same way he always ended up: this part I could remember. "He was slumped over the table." Surrounded by empty bottles, crummy midnight snacks. My stomach hurt, remembering. I shivered again, the silky boxers raising goose bumps on my legs.

Pedery met my eyes, nodding slowly. She remembered too.

I sat in my kitchen, across from my sister, for a long time; stiff, shivering, staring at her: watching her cry and sneeze and smear her mascara. She didn't say anything else - not that I was expecting more. Dad was dead. It meant so little - some blurry face on the edge of a photograph. An image of our last family photo came to mind -- my mom, with her fifties hairstyle, Pedery and I in matching dresses, and _him_...or, at least his lower half. The rest of him had been torn out.

Eventually I stood, padding into the kitchen. I felt so...weird. I had friends, I currently had a job. I was getting my hair cut in four hours. Tricia and I were bar-hopping tonight. But it was like I couldn't possibly go on with that. Not until my past crawled back underground and died.

"When's the funeral?" I asked, investigating the coffee pot. Whatever was inside was beginning to crust around the edges.

I heard her sniffling. "Tomorrow morning. I-I've been working with Angie, this amazing lady from the parlor, trying to get everything put together. All my friends are coming, and so are Pops and Nona. It'll be held at the First Day Church, an eleven o'clock. I've picked claret and topaz as theme colors - does that seem too bright..."

I let her ramble, knowing this was something she had to work out verbally, and injected snub comments and _uh-huhs_. The coffee was crap, so I grabbed some orange juice, sipping quietly; drifting off until I stopped listening to her. _Screw funerals,_ I thought, _the flowers can be wilting for all the hell I care._

"You'll come, won't you?" I flinched: her sincerity was laid bare. This was a special thing, an event I was obligated to attend, for her, for dad, for family.

"Sure," I lied.

--

Tomorrow Morning

Eleven O'clock

I lay stretched under the covers, lazily rubbing my legs together, blinds shut. Downstairs, the answering machine beeped again, the signal of another unanswered call. I hear Pedery's voice recording message number fifteen. Answering never crossed my mind. I remained in bed, not moving, not thinking...and _definitely_ not remembering.

--

Storming into my house (for the second time in the same week), dressing me in a cheesy outfit that must have been purchased from the old woman section of the clothing store, and dragging me out in public was Pedery's idea of revenge.

She took the scenic route into downtown, talking my ear off about something stupid. I was forced into the pharmacy to pick up pregnant-lady meds, then to the grocery store for some laundry detergent. Pedery checked her watch five times in the check-out of the clearance store, where we had stopped just to 'pass the time'. We were almost out of the Sun Juice drive-thru when I acknowledged that she was hiding something. Instant headache. _How much shit can she unload on my life?_

Buckets. Freaking buckets.

"I met this _wonderful_ woman at the funeral yesterday." Her narrowed, sideways glare was a sign I was far from forgiven. "She's a lawyer from the Rural Farmers' Society. Apparently our father had met with her a few weeks before...his passing. To discuss arrangements."

My grip on the commercial to-go cup tightened. "What kind of arrangements? _Why_ the hell are there lawyers at the Rural Farmers' Society? Aren't hicks supposed to, I dunno, mud wrestle or something when the baby horse is born under the other's wagon?"

She didn't seem to be listening; she was suddenly smiling, slowing the car and turning into a small parking lot off of Trick-Blue Avenue. The building before us was the color of sand, a green metal awning positioned above the door. The letters 'RFS' were painted on the door. Waiting in the shade beneath the awning was a big-boned and freckled women with long black hair styled on top of her head. She waved at us, a black file folder smashed against her boobs. She was sweating through the sleeves of her orange power suit. I struggled to fit her under "Wonderful".

"Welcome, sweetie!" She was talking to Pedery, reaching out as though to embrace her as she maneuvered out of the car. "Bless your lil' heart, coming in so soon. I wish I could schedule somethin' after you've had time to rest and recuperate, but I'm afraid these things have to be handled as soon as possible." She spoke in an unmistakable drawl, enunciating each word carefully, like she was addressing someone one step lower on the intelligence ladder. Pedery was beaming, graciously allowing Betty Crocker there to escort her inside. I waiting until their backs were turned before pretending to gag.

"Millaray!" Pedery beckoned me to follow, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she held the door open. I looked over my shoulder, seriously considering the busy street. How far could I get dressed like a gothic Laura Ingles? Pedery cleared her throat. "Milly? Dora is waiting for us." Oh, goodness.

The Rural Farmers' Society's downtown office was decked out completely in unmatching and hideous shades of green, yellow, and brown -- colors that might be chosen from a paint scheme titled "poop and puke". The picnic-esque checkered couch, lamp in the shape of a corn cob, and life-size model of a rooster on the end table made me feel...redneck. My brain cells were withering.

Dora waddled over to the front desk, tapping a bovine bobble-head with one pudgy finger. "Just give me one second, hunny, and I'll take you back to the room." She pulled open a drawer and withdrew a plastic sign with the words "With Customer -- Please Ring Bell For Service" printed in big block letters. She placed it next to an ugly orange bell, dinging it...to see if it worked, I guess. Her chin crinkled as she smiled, beckoning Pedery, who was complimenting her choice in carpet, down a hallway. I knew I was expected to the follow. I also knew the door was thirty feet away. _They're both fat! I can make it!_

Pedery was glaring again. I remembered what I was wearing. I followed.

We were led to a room with a mural on the wall: more roosters, and chickens, pecking round their two-dimensional yard. A card table with folding chairs was set up in the middle. When I entered Pedery was already sitting, the chair squeaking as she tried to get comfortable. Dora stood across the table, the black folder set between them. I slid awkwardly into my chair and immediately slumped down until I could feel cold metal against my neck. Dora gave the look: the kind you shoot the creepy kid sitting across the aisle on the public bus who looks like he'll shank you when you get up to leave. I arched my brows, and she hurriedly looked away, back to Pedery, the safe one.

"First, I'd like to give you my deepest sympathies. Losing someone you care about is never easy, but I know strong ladies like ya'll will manage just fine!" I rolled my eyes; seconds alter Pedery kicked my under the table. She was smiling at Dora, who continued obliviously. "I hope I can help to settle this affair."

"We'd like to get this shaken out," Pedery agreed earnest, kneading the straps of her purse between her fingers. "My sister and I are both eager to...close the casket, so to speak." This time Dora nodded and smiled. I muttered something under my breath about cheese factories and received another kick from Pedery.

Dora sat down with an audible thump, withdrawing thick white glasses from her suit pocket and slipping them on. "Then we'll just get right down to business!" She pulled the black folder towards her, opening it. Inside was a collection of legal papers, receipts, and other junk. She thumbed through the stack until she found the one she needed, pulling it out and placing it on top. Suddenly she was very serious. I sat up a little.

"Now, let's see: your father made an appointment with me a month ago. I met him out at our country branch, and we got talking about what he wanted to do with his assets on the occasion that he might...experience some health troubles." Her look was pinched and apologetic. She licked her lips and adjusted her glasses before continuing. "What I have here is a document signed by your father, Jack Lauder, which details what he wants done-!"

"Can't we just sell it?" I interrupted, unable to guess at why we'd want to keep anything of _his_. I glanced at Pedery. I hoped she knew that.

"Not necessarily," Dora responded slowly, looking back and forth between me and Pedery, who was giving me The Look again. "His monetary assets have been locked until," she peered at the paper, running her fingers across the page, "sixteen months post-morgue." I almost rolled my eyes again -- how exactly was I supposed to sell money?

Pedery nodded understand as she pulled a sandwich bag filled with dried fruit out of her purse. She opened it, and popped one in her mouth. "What does he want us to do?" she asked patiently.

Dora cleared her throat, patting her chest. "Goodness! I could explain, but it might be easier if I just read it out loud." She picked up the paper, placing her chubby elbows on the table.

"Perfect," Pedery chimed just Dora began to read.

"Story time," I muttered.

_"In the incident of the passing of Jack Lauder, hereby referred to as THE OWNER, all of his properties are to be divided as stated below between his two biological daughters, Pedery Elizabeth Lauder and Millaray Abigail Lauder, hereby referred to as the INHERITORS. On the event of his passing, THE OWNER has arranged for one-half of his monetary fortune and all properties of his late wife, Elli Scott-Lauder, to be granted to the first INHERITOR, Pedery Elizabeth Lauder. He also grants the aforementioned person with his stock claims, investments, and pertaining financial matters." _

She paused, looking up from behind her glasses. "Making sense to ya'll?" Pedery nodded, blinking rapidly, eyes wet. Her necklace, a tiny golden disc with a woman's ivory profile, caught the overhead lights. I could tell: the small girl who held mommy's hand and licked the batter-covered spoon was resurfacing. Dad had done well - Pedery was happy. I dared to recall myself at that moment, pouting in the corner..._God knows what he's thought up for me._

"It that it?"

"No," Dora said shortly, finding her place. "There's more."

_"In the case of the second INHERITOR, Millaray Abigail Lauder, THE OWNER has arranged from one-half of his monetary fortune to be granted there-to one year post-morgue. Additionally, THE OWNER has deemed that the second INHERITOR shall receive full mandated ownership of the Lauder farm, hereby known as THE PROPERTY."_

Holy _shit._

For that moment I seemed to stand outside myself, watching this freak occurrence. Pedery's eyes dilated, her mouth fell open, half-chewed bits of fruit snack spilling onto the top of her breasts. I was frozen in a half-slouch, gripping the edge of the chair and glaring at the damned paper in Dora's hands. A moment of disbelief hung over the table, where both Pedery and I stood on the same side of the line, waiting dumbfounded for this woman to laugh and explain the joke. When she didn't, the silence deteriorated and accusations insured.

"What do you mean, the farm?" Pedery whispered slowly, brows knotted.

I wasn't so polite. "What the hell!" I yelled, rising fully from my slump and slamming my feet on the floor. "Is that all he left me! Pedery gets his cash, his stock investments, all mom's stuff, and I get landed with the fucking _farm?_"

Dora recoiled, nervously patting her hair. "That's what he's confirmed here, darling." I was speechless, stunned like someone who'd fallen while ice skating. I wouldn't take it - ever. I needed to make them understand that.

"I don't want it," I told her, speaking quickly so she couldn't tell me otherwise. "I want nothing to do with that farm. I'll take my share of the money. Pedery can have the farm."

Pedery was watching the paper carefully, as though the answers were written on the back in secret ink. She was clutching her forehead, shaking her head back and forth. "I don't think it's that easy, Milly." She spoke to Dora. "There's more, isn't there?"

Dora nodded. "If I may please continue?"

Neither Pedery nor I said a word, both waiting expectantly. She cleared her throat.

"Under the internationally regulated terms of mandated ownership, THE PROPERTY has been signed over by THE OWNER to the second INHERITOR under the following conditions: the INHERITOR must maintain all financial responsibilities pertaining to THE PROPERTY and must reside there for a minimum of one twelve-month year before THE PROPERTY can be released for sale. This mandate is effective immediately following the death of THE OWNER."

Pedery was nodding her head, humming her understanding. She turned to me, carefully cleaning away her fruit snacks. "Do you get it, Millaray?" Her tone was cautious. "You...you _own_ the farm, but in order to keep ownership, you have to...live there. You'd have to move back."

Did they realize how little sense this made? "I don't want to live there." I enunciated each word, picturing myself with a jack hammer, drilling against Pedery's thick blonde skull. "I want to get rid of it."

"According to his will, you've got to reside there for a year before you are allowed to submit the property to the real estate market," Dora drawled, tapping a finger onto the page. Her lips were pursed, gaze sickeningly sympathetic. "It is a strict term of ownership, sweetheart, I know, but it's the law."

Back inside me, the walls of her room seemed closer together, folding down like an origami box. I saw the box slipping from a child's hand to the sidewalk, squished beneath hundreds of giant feet. Those feet disturbed my stomach, suppressed my breathing. "What if I don't _want_ the goddamn farm?" Was I speaking English? "I hate it. I won't go!"

Dora's eyes flashed with exasperation. "Sweetie, as the inheritor, you have "all financial responsibly pertaining to THE PROPERTY". Even if you don't want to live on the property, you still have to pay for electricity, water, taxes..."

I jumped to my feet, chair tipping to one side. I threw out my arm in emphasis, nearly clubbing Pedery. "God, _I don't to go back there!_" My voice was cracked, near hysterical. The mural on the wall contorted, chickens molding with clouds. My face was hot: I felt ugly and cheated. This was all his fault. "The law can't _make_ me go back there."

Pedery was hurrying to stand, wincing as her rounded belly bumped the table. "Calm down, Milly, we'll figure this out. I'm sure there is a way to make this better," she soothed, glancing at Dora, who was huddled against the back of her chair, waiting for me to pull out a gun and start shooting. "This mandate...is effective immediately?"

"Yes," Dora whispered, bug-eyed behind her glasses. "Immediately following the death of the owner."

"Alright, alright," Pedery accepted, nodding comfortingly. "Milly...this is all going to be okay. You only have to stay in the Valley for one year. Uncle Takakura will be there with you, and I'm sure everyone will be happy to see you again! Remember Ruby; she used to baby-sit us?" No, no, _no_. "I'll help you pack; we'll buy some new clothes."

Snippets of the past conversation resurfaced like a kraken, all sharp teeth and claws. "He...he said I couldn't have any money until a year after his death." It wasn't a question, but another sick realization: it was all a trap, I was snared. Pedery inhaled, dropping her eyes to the floor, knocked down a peg. I could see her scrambling to be encouraging, digging for the right words. Dora was beginning to sweat a little, dabbing her forehead with her sleeve.

"Yes, yes, that is what he said," she confirmed, standing up and adjusting her jacket. "Why don't we take a break then, girls? This is a hard thing to work through, and isn't it about time we had some lunch? Why don't ya'll come back in a few hours..."

Her lips were moving, head moving up and down. The paper was loose in her hand. So close, I could grab it and burn it and then everything would be fine. My mind was rioting: no, no no! The stink of beer, the light under the kitchen door, tears plinking into the pancake batter, lawyers and grabbing and broken plates -- _keep it_, you bastard, _take it to your goddamn grave._

"Millaray? Let's go..." Traitor. Pedery was such a traitor. She could die too. She reached out, trying to be comforting, and I knew to embrace was to be defeated.

I didn't realize I'd picked up my chair until I threw it.

--

_"Now boarding: Line 218, from Indigo Station to Kappa, from platform seven. Repeat: Indigo Station to Kappa, now boarding on platform seven."_

My throat felt swollen, reflex gag irritated; that burning itch on the roof of your mouth. I felt keenly the ticket in my hand, which clearly stated I was to be on board Line 218 when it departed in fifteen minutes. My suitcase was somewhere next to my leg, Pedery-packed, waiting for me. I imagined it weighed down, like the cell phone in my pocket, heavy with the anticipated call from her, ready to swoop in with cops and lawyers if I didn't go.

I recalled a text from Tricia: _can't u just ignore them?_

_No, i'm sworn by law 2 go. that cop was f-ing serious. prison or this._

I wish I'd chosen prison.

Somehow I got my suitcase in hand and my unwilling legs moving towards platform seven, dragging my feet with every step. Other passengers got ahead of me, shoes slapping cheerfully and smiles wide. They advertised their destinations: well-dressed individuals on business trip, bold printed sundresses and floral polos for those on the family vacation. I looked down at my shirt: textured silver with the Japanese kanji for remembrance, and felt the irony.

Line 218 was a small shuttle, painted a sticky green. A porter took my suitcase and punched a hole in my ticket, ushering me to my seat, in the back near the window. I slumped down, resting my forehead against the window pane. Pedery was surely at my house, scrubbing the inside of my refrigerator and burning my boxer shorts in an effigy of all she had accomplished. She had _won_, I was _going_, off to spend a tortured year in the one place on Earth I would give both legs never to return to. My stomach growled as I began to scowl, already missing my bed, my room, my sedentary state of being. I needed a drink, I needed to relax with junk food and paint my nails again.

The train whistled and lurched into motion, edging out of the station immediately inclining upward along Line 218, heading towards the mountains. I got one last glimpse of Harvest City, triumphant from Mystril Acres all the way to the riot of downtown, before my view was obstructed by trees. I grabbed the seat before me, craning to see further ahead. Nothing but green: green and grey and brown.

My phone went off; it was Pedery's name that appeared on the ID.

A light, masculine voice came over the loudspeaker. _"Attention, we are now en route to Kappa Bus Station: transport links to Mineral Town and Forget-Me-Not Valley. We have an estimated one hour and forty-seven minutes until our arrival. Refreshment will be served momentarily. Thank you for choosing Harvest City Rail Lines…"_

I had only a few sweet, unbound hours before the next stop on my Journey to Hell. I considered Pedery, the possibility of the cell signal shorting out, and her talkative tendencies. Signal would be good to Mineral Town; her minutes, unlimited. Hell before me, hell behind me. _No use boxing myself in._

I reached into my purse, dug out my headphones, and let it ring.

So? Interested? Drop me a review and tell me what you think...

_3 Greeny_


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